I frown, acknowledging the truth in that. I painted the self-portrait just after I arrived in the city. It was meant to be an experiment, a diversion. Just me and a mirror and a pot of black paint. The brush lines are crude, hasty. The image is more suggestion than accurate reflection, my downcast face and tumble of loose hair the primary focus, as if the rest of me were dissolving into the canvas.
Nick takes me back into his arms. His expression is sober, his voice earnest. “This painting is good, Avery. This was the gift I saw in you. The gift I see in you even more now.”
“You never said anything. You never told me you had it.”
I’m astonished to think that he’s been seeing my painting—this personal expression of myself—each time he’s been on this plane . . . in this room.
He holds my shocked gaze as he smooths a loose tendril of hair from my cheek. “You’ve been mine longer than you know, Avery. I didn’t plan on any of this happening between us. Ah, Christ . . . I didn’t plan on falling in love with you.”
My breath catches at his soft confession, my heart swelling, soaring inside my breast. “Nick . . . I love you too. I love you so much.”
I wrap my arms around him as our lips meet, emotion swamping me. I’ve never known this joy, this hope, this soul-deep love. I’m so swept up in Nick’s kiss, his embrace, that I hardly register the quiet sound of approaching feet on the carpeted cabin outside.
Pamela’s awkward inhalation breaks through my haze. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Baine, Miss Ross. I’m so sorry for the interruption.”
Nick clears his throat. “It’s all right.”
We glance at the attendant, who stands sheepishly at the open doorway of the stateroom. “The captain says we’re cleared for the runway. We can begin departure as soon as you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Pamela.”
As she leaves us, I look back up at Nick and his cryptic smile. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or am I going to have to wheedle the information out of the crew?”
He smirks. “I already told you. I’m taking you to dinner. I know this nice little place with a great view and a duck specialty that’s out of this world.”
I tilt my head, brows raised. “The last time we flew to one of your favorite places we ended up in Miami.”
He kisses the tip of my nose, then pulls something out of his back pocket.
My passport.
“Tonight we’re going a bit farther than Miami.”
Chapter 25
“You certainly do know how to impress a girl.”
It’s morning in Paris—although, admittedly, at ten minutes before noon, it’s barely morning anymore. After arriving from New York after midnight, Nick whisked me off to a dinner at a beautiful historic restaurant that truly did serve a fantastic pressed duck. Although we had arrived long past closing time, Nick had arranged for a private table to be waiting for us with a spectacular nighttime view of Notre-Dame Cathedral and the glistening Seine.
As if my introduction to the City of Light wasn’t jaw-dropping enough, Nick then brought me home to his penthouse flat on the other side of the river, where he proceeded to make me come no less than three times before we both finally collapsed into a heavy, sated sleep.
I sigh just thinking of it, my body still thrumming and eager for more.
Nick walks out of the kitchen to join me at the open French doors of the rooftop terrace. He looks decadent and far too sexy wearing just a pair of loose black lounge pants, his dark hair sleek and damp from our recent shower.
He presses a steaming cup of coffee into my hands and kisses my temple. “Learning to love surprises, are you, Ms. Ross?”
“I’m learning to love a lot of things where you’re concerned.” I sigh and lean against him in a fluffy white spa robe, not yet motivated to think about clothing.
Just beyond the terrace, the postcard landscape of the Paris skyline spreads out in all
directions for as far as my eyes can see. From Nick’s premium location on a picturesque side street off the famed Avenue des Champs-Élysées, our multimillion-dollar view is flanked by a soaring Gothic church spire to one side, and, to the other, the bronze-colored, delicate wrought iron latticework of the iconic Eiffel Tower. On the avenues below us, countless five-star hotels and world-renowned designer boutiques stretch from one end of the pavement to the other.
“Hungry?” he murmurs, his arm wrapped around me.
“I shouldn’t be, but whatever you’re making smells delicious.” The buttery, vanilla aroma has my mouth watering in spite of how much food and wine we indulged in last night.
I follow him back to the kitchen where he whips up a batch of crêpes with fresh berries and cream, and another with eggs and ham and cheese. With plates full of sweet and savory temptations, we step out to the little table that’s been set for brunch on the terrace.